


My Demons Can Swim, Now I'm The One Who's Drowning...

by DefinitionOfTheWordFangirl



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Don't Judge Me, Everyone is Dead, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, F/M, Hurt Stiles, I Think I Broke The Tags, I'm so sorry, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Multi, One Shot, Other, Pack Dynamics, Pack Feels, Poly pack, Sad, Sad Ending, Sad Stiles, Short & Sweet, Trauma, What Have I Done, What Was I Thinking?, Why Did I Write This?, my poor baby, not really - Freeform, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 09:34:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4014706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DefinitionOfTheWordFangirl/pseuds/DefinitionOfTheWordFangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sad little one shot about Stiles. It's all in the tags.</p><p>"This dark-eyed boy has no use for promises anymore. He learnt the hard way that they are fickle things, far too easily broken."</p><p>Sorry for any Typos!</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Demons Can Swim, Now I'm The One Who's Drowning...

****

Stiles doesn’t leave the house anymore, because sometimes, when he has cut himself off from the world, hidden under covers that lost the scent of them weeks ago, he can convince himself that the pack are about to knock on his window. Requesting help, wanting to speak with him, warn him, or even just scold him. _Anything_.

The teen spends most days curled in on himself, fending off the world’s cruelty, eyes tired although he spends his days wasting away in a room that once felt like home. Now it feels cold. He hears malevolent mutterings from every corner and the stale air tastes of broken promises.

“We’re in this together.”

“Stiles, I will _always_ be there.”

“We won’t hurt them if you do what we say...

_We promise.”_

This dark-eyed boy has no use for promises anymore. He learnt the hard way that they are fickle things, far too easily broken.

Some days, few and far between they might be, he wakes up and is _angry._ He’s angry at wolves who were so sure of themselves, so proud, strong and noble, that their _pride_ wouldn’t allow them to bow down and accept help. Stiles Stilinski screams for his warrior friends, barely into adulthood, whose greatest sin was hubris.

We all know that it gets better, but the possibility of a day he doesn’t awake to feel like the air is being crushed out of his lungs feels impossible...

He just _misses_ them. The pain has become as commonplace as breathing... Always there, always acute. But his splintered heart keeps beating, and there are moments when he can almost forget the happy life he leaves further and further behind with each second.

Never again will he wake to the snuffling of someone’s warm breath on his neck as he lies curled in the centre of a jumbled pile of tangled limbs. His Pack.

Erica: The only girl in the history of the universe to be able to pull off leopard print. All bravado and wit, but with an underlying vulnerability. A perfect example for “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”.

Boyd? Loyal to a fault, he was the protective older brother you would threaten bullies with. Stiles misses his hugs.

Then there were _JacksonandLydia_. Those two were so close, you couldn’t even think of them separately. Their unattainable beauty was enough to give you complexes, but they loved the pack. More than they cared to admit, and now they never will be able to express their affections...

Thinking of Isaac is hard. Because all Stiles sees now when the pack puppy, the golden boy is mentioned, is glassy blue eyes and blond hair matted with blood. So he doesn’t think of him at all.

 Memories of Scotty are enough to bring him to his knees, gasping for breaths he doesn’t really want, because that would mean carrying on, and without his best friend there’s no one to carry on _for_. First time riding a bike, petty arguments over Transformers, Popsicles that stain your tongue blue for days... The tree house. Lacrosse practice. Scott’s blood on the tarmac.

There’s a whole night of loneliness, sadness and _darkness_ for each candle flame of happiness, and this lonely soul is tired of trying.

He doesn’t even _think_ his name most days, because if he starts crying now, he doesn’t think he’ll ever stop. But in the most desperate moments, that’s when he nurses the part of his heart where the wounds are still fresh; raw and bleeding and _painful._ Derek. The love of his life, _gone_. Their hearts used to beat in synch, Stiles’ sounds strangely feeble, fluttering and thrumming without the steady beat from another chest to keep him grounded. He hasn’t washed his sheets ‘cause they still _smell_ like him. Or maybe they don’t. Maybe they just smell of the teen, of sadness, of the salty tang of tears he has yet to cry.  


End file.
